


Rivers

by Augustus



Category: Britney Spears (Musician), NSYNC, Pop Music RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-05-05
Updated: 2003-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-11 12:22:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3327029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Augustus/pseuds/Augustus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justin returns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rivers

**Author's Note:**

> Soundtrack: Roy Orbison.   
> Author's Note: This bunny was (belatedly) sparked off by something I read in some teen magazine or another, in which it was stated that Britney and Justin were seen disappearing into a hotel, some time after the break-up... Apparently Justin emerged some hours later looking dishevelled...  
> This is not meant to be a Britney-bash, but it's Justin-centric and therefore may read that way. Maybe one day I'll write Britney's side of the story...

You never wanted it to come to this. Holding hands in the lift, you laugh about nothing and pretend that you have no interest in the past. She is still beautiful. You run your fingers over her lips, captured by the low-lidded question in her eyes. Britney was always able to twist you with a glance, reduce all conviction to a slow-moving puddle of confusion in your chest. It makes sense that this may never change; after all, the talk of forever must still wield a temperate sword.

After years of denial, it's strange to know that this time the answer will be yes. You remember the countless scenarios that you created and think of the nights you curled beneath the bedclothes, distracted and disgruntled and so frustrated that you could almost scream. It hurts to know that this is the culmination of your foolish expectations, but this is what you wanted. It's wrapped in guilt and misshapen hypocrisy, but unmistakable nonetheless. The lift feels claustrophobic. When the doors open, you breathe and create a smile. The air tastes of room service and a thousand perfumes.

The room is blank, a passionless collection of furniture and decoration. The paintings on the walls are faded and insubstantial, replicas of countless others that lie strewn across the globe. The lamp casts a crooked glow and you are smothered by the sudden urge to make shadow puppets on the walls. You wonder whether it would be so easy to back away and try to recall whether the elephant takes one hand or two. In the counterfeit light, Britney's silhouette is smooth and imperfect. When you kiss her, your shadows merge. You pretend it's symbolic.

This, then, is the conclusion to romance. Stilted conversation fills an awkward room. Your sinuses ache, a sliding, sparking pain that streaks your vision and reflects within your skull. Britney's laughter shatters the air and you feel the distance warp and grow as you pull her into your arms and bury your face against her neck. She smells different. Her perfume sours as reality intrudes. Intuitive, Britney traces circles of contrition on your back, her fingertips hot through the fabric of your tee shirt, and murmurs cliched seductions with her lips pressed against your ear. It was never like this.

 

_((Britney was your first kiss, back when innocence wasn't a pose for the cameras and anything more was theoretical and strange. You thought she was beautiful; her hair felt like liquid beneath your fingers and she smelled of sunlight and strawberry ice cream. When you kissed her, the other kids cheered while your stomach twisted into greased coils of premonition. When she smiled at you, you blushed.))_

 

When you close your eyes, she is just another groupie. You can taste her lipstick, greasy beneath your kiss, and her hair feels starched and synthetic when you smooth it with your hands. She moans into your lips, her hands already drifting lower, and you wish you could believe it was anything but yet another lie. You want to hate her; instead, you tug at the buttons of her shirt and lead her towards the bed.

His name is never said, but it slides within your veins, greying your vision as you try to smear him from your mind. You hold her a little too tightly, kiss her a little too firmly, and you're fairly sure that she sees it as the punishment that it is. Atonement smells like stiff hotel sheets and burning dust on the bedside lamp. You wonder when puppy love twisted into this seeping, stabbing desire and you press your lips to the base of Britney's neck, marking your territory as she twines within your grasp.

She was meant to be your first; you were meant to be hers. Instead, you trail fingers over the bare skin of her stomach, eyes searching for marks left by those who came before. Your hands fist within Britney's hair and you want to smile when she gasps from the short-lived pain. You still love her. Her breasts are warm beneath your lips, soft and remembered and a distraction from your thoughts. You feel as though time is inverting. Your breath catches behind your teeth as Britney reaches to unbutton your jeans. Her fingers are cold.

It happens. It is nothing like you once predicted it would be.

Britney is sleek and blatantly sexual as she slides, naked, within your arms. You can sense his influence in her every move; it was never like this before. She murmurs your name and you want to wipe it from her lips. Once you dreamed endlessly about making love, but this is fucking at it's rawest, all teeth and nails and your fingers pressing bruises into her skin. Britney says the things you need her to say and if you close your eyes you can almost believe that everything's okay. You try to break her with your kiss and you thrust and you touch and time splinters into a thousand separate moments as your orgasm takes you by surprise. When you open your eyes, you can barely recognise the sated smile upon her face.

 

_((The day you moved in together, white clouds trailed fluid lines across the sky. When you held Britney's hand, you could feel her pulse through the skin, her fingers slim and smooth and so much smaller than your own. You loved her so damn much that your lungs ached from the effort of breathing and your legs felt alien and useless when you tried to stand. When you kissed, you knew that it was right and that it would be forever and that nothing, ever, could tear the two of you apart.))_

 

Afterwards, you hold her, tangled around each other on the bed and so far apart that you doubt she'd hear if you could find the words to say her name. Her skin is damp and irritating. It prickles where you touch and there's an acidic burning deep within your throat that was never there before. The hackneyed melodrama of the moment is nauseating. You wonder whether this is all there is, whether a different accumulation of circumstances could have led to something sweetly beautiful instead of this taut and stifling silence and the accusation in her touch. You think that perhaps this is what being normal is like. As you dress, Britney pokes the curtains to one side and searches the street for cameras. You wish you could bury your head in her lap and sob.

Saying goodbye is so much harder the second time around. As the door closes, a rhythmic ache rises in your temples. Your skin hurts. The waistband of your jeans is cutting into your stomach and you can picture the red indentation that it will leave, stark and horizontal against the lines of your hips. You slide your fingers beneath the stiff denim, smoothing the irritation, and wish that it could be so easy to rub away Britney's marks.

Later, you stand beneath the showerhead until the water runs cold, icy rivers freezing the echo of her touch from your skin. You feel alone: bedraggled and wounded and searching for tears that refuse to come. When you try to sleep, you forget how to breathe. Nothing seems permanent any more. You wait for the phone to ring, but know it never will, shadows pooling on your bedroom floor as your fingernails press red arches into your palms. You pray for peace and for sanity and for a flawless love that doesn't have to feel this way.

You cry. It almost dulls the pain.

 

_((One day, your love will begin to fade. You will remember her fondly and painfully and wonder what happened to make it all go so wrong. She will not seem perfect any more, burnished and synthetic and diminished by time. You will still think her beautiful. When you meet at a party, surrounded by cameras and sycophants and painted celebrity, she will press warm lips to your ear and ask for another chance. You will answer her._

_You will say no.))_

**5th May 2003**


End file.
